


how she branches

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: There's a kind of salvation in this.





	how she branches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/gifts).



> See how she lists. The body is bent as light, as wind will it.  
> And so you must tread light. Mind the rocks under foot. You must tread  
> slow.  
> There has been drought; see where water has long ago troughed, has  
> carved her.  
> See how she branches, twisting, her many hands reaching.
> 
> — Barbara Jane Reyes

There’s a kind of salvation in this: the way Morgana takes the ripe, round peach from the palm of Gwen’s hand, not even startling any more at the twittering of the birds in the trees above their heads, the way she had when they first began their silent walks in the woods. There’s no language for them any more — or maybe they’ll learn it again, in a future that hasn’t begun to show itself yet. Morgana bites into the fruit, licks the juice off her fingers before offering Gwen a taste. The fruit is passed back and forth between them like a ball in a game. 

_Your turn now. Maybe I’ll let you win this time._

She’s Queen now, and Morgana is still a Pendragon, both of them joined by law, sharing a name as though they were wedded. Gwen and Morgana Pendragon. Morgana and Gwen Pendragon. The only thing that weds them is grief, sharp and tangy, a visceral taste in Gwen’s mouth that lingers and lingers.

—

Aithusa flies in circles above their heads, unseen above the canopy of leaves and branches and fruit that hangs so low in the Pendragon orchard that it skims the crowns of their heads as they pass underneath. They wear breeches and boots on their walks, costumes redolent of the time they’d fought together in Ealdor and won, lifetimes ago, friendships ago. 

Aithusa, unseen but not unheard, lets out a plaintive cry from time to time, and Gwen has learnt that sound by now: has learnt that it means that Aithusa has lost sight of Morgana, the only home the dragon knows. They hear the frantic beating of wings before Aithusa emerges, flying low above their heads, reassuring herself that Morgana is there.

Gwen knows the feeling.

—

The stream is noisy, water breaking against rocks, in a hurry to get to wherever it’s going. Morgana rolls up her breeches and walks barefoot in the water, sunlight distorting the shapes of her toes, her skin pearly under the transparent surface. They’d done the same as little girls, Morgana new to Camelot and Gwen her assigned playmate who’d taught the princess to jump into streams, who’d tried to teach her to be a child. She hadn’t known then that Morgana, the silent little princess with grief crusting her eyes, had left her childhood behind when she came. 

But Morgana had learnt. She’d learnt to imitate Gwen’s smiles, her hugs, her happiness. Gwen had enough to share. They’d grown, together; they’d learnt, together, what it was to discover another’s body, what it was to trade kisses sticky with peach juice, what it was to explore another’s body the way one might explore a tree, climbing its branches toward the sky, eating its fruit, learning its secrets.

For a moment, she looks into the water, rushing past and bright with sunlight, and catches a fleeting glimpse of two young women, their entwined reflections emerging from the past like a mirage, bright with love. She blinks and they’re gone.

She turns to see Morgana lowering her hand, magic crackling around her like leaves in the wind. “Did you—”

She can’t finish the question, because if Morgana didn't, she doesn't want to know.

Morgana’s lips quirk in what could be the beginnings of a smile—finally, finally—but it’s gone as soon as it appears, leaving behind the familiar blank slate of Morgana’s expressionless face. For once, the lack of expression is a relief rather than a cause for further grief, merely the absence of a smile that’s learning to shape itself again.

“Come on,” Morgana says, holding out her hand. The first words Gwen has heard her say since she found her that day in the woods, woods not so far away from this orchard of memories, from this stream of _now_. She toes off her boots and steps into the stream beside Morgana, Morgana’s fingers holding hers, letting go when Gwen finds her footing. They wade together against the flow of the current, reflections dancing and overlapping on the always-moving surface of the water, Aithusa’s wings noisy and content above them.


End file.
